Thomas Gable came through the hall at twenty past nine carrying a lamp with no shade on it.

He stopped and adjusted his lapels.

“I trust the evening has met your expectations.”

“It went exactly as planned,” I said.

He looked at the two of us, and the small room, and the tables with the plates cleared.

“That is a sentence I do not hear often in this building.” Then he went on down the hall with the lamp.

We ended up on the balcony off the second floor, with the dark water below and the harbor lights strung out toward the bridge.